


Fire-Eaters

by Letterblade



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: BDSM, Begging, Bratty Sub Claude, Clamps - Freeform, Deepthroating, Edgeplay, Gags, M/M, Oral Fixation, Pervertibles, Small References to Yuri's Backstory, background Yuri/Balthus if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24851128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letterblade/pseuds/Letterblade
Summary: “Then it shouldn’t be a problem if I strip you down, tie you up, strap a collar round that noble neck of yours, and fuck with your mouth until you cry, now should it?”
Relationships: Yuris Leclair | Yuri Leclerc/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 19
Kudos: 191





	Fire-Eaters

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written and it's all the anon meme's fault. I cannot overstate how much this is just a fic about Yuri fucking with Claude's mouth. And also two reckless shits doing undernegotiated edgeplay, but they love it. Thanks to [mllelaurel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mllelaurel) for beta!

It starts the first time Yuri comes up to audit the Professor’s classes. Claude _fucking_ von Riegan goes and opens his mouth about the superiority of recurve bows. Which sets off I Am Ferdinand von Aegir and derails the class for a half hour straight, during which Claude just _keeps going_.

Yuri sits there in the far corner of the room, scribbles notes to himself about possible new angles to get supplies into Abyss, and fantasizes in luxurious detail about striding over there, grabbing that mess of dark hair, and shoving in as many fingers as he could to shut him up.

Sitting at the same dining hall table as him doesn’t help. Claude lingers, chatting with one person after another, distracted as the food on his plate grows cold, and Yuri wants to put it on his tongue one piece at a time, close up his mouth with his hand, and force him to swallow.

Then there’s sword practice, and Claude tries so earnestly to fast-talk as a distraction. Yuri wants to strap a gag in that mouth and watch him fight that way, nothing but muffled grunts. He’s wiping the floor with him anyway—Claude’s good, resourceful, but not good enough to keep up with Yuri’s uncanny speed.

The stupid part is that Yuri legitimately likes the guy. Sure, he talks a big game and is kind of a sweet summer child underneath all the jokes about poisons and schemes, but Yuri won’t forget how much he’d done for him and the Wolves. Nor the way he’d spoken up about underground maybe not being the best environment, nor the way he’d spin wild adventure stories for the kids, nor the way he’d squiggled out of the Battle of the Eagle and the Lion with the fewest losses and joked that was the real win.

No, somehow that all makes it _harder_ to shake the thought of holding that silver tongue down with his fingers until he drools. Just—fondly, somehow.

They play chess, long and tricksy games, won or lost by narrow margins, and of course Claude goes for table-talk and misdirection, and of course Yuri imagines tying a ring in his mouth to hold it open and watching him drool as he played on. Maybe putting his own captured pieces inside. Not the pawns, of course. Wouldn’t want him to choke. Only the men, stuffing him full.

Claude starts flirting with him, always when it could be passed off as a joke or feint, and Yuri imagines what his lips would look like stretched around his cock. And other things, bare skin, whether he’d let him take his ass, how much he’d struggle when bound, plenty of things. He isn’t _singularly_ fixated. This ridiculous man is lovely, after all, top to bottom. Powerful, cocky in a way that makes Yuri want to break him down lovingly.

And he has that little hard-wrapped core of real and dangerous secrets that actually make Yuri’s heart ache a bit to think on, and he can’t help but wonder how he falls apart when he comes.

 _Yuri’s_ not stupid. Balthus confirms what he’d suspected: half-Almyran, in a precarious position. It’s easy enough to wonder if he’s a man with a secret agenda.

But Yuri flirts back regardless, and lets it have that edge of danger that he doesn’t with many, and that doesn’t scare him off. Rather it makes Claude’s eyes spark. They kiss—lingering, heated, full of teeth and tongue and his delicious little noises as Yuri bites those soft expressive lips—because Claude joked about it being a wager on a game he’d lost. They make out behind a pillar, scamper off to stick their hands down each other’s pants like perfectly normal teenagers, and it’s like nothing Yuri’s ever done. So _heedless._

And then there’s a fucking _war_. Because _somebody_ had hidden her own secret agenda frighteningly well.

Claude von Riegan goes off to become an entire sovereign duke, and everything is chaos and little wildfires as Edelgard’s war machine chases down pieces of the Church, and Yuri hunkers down with his people in Abyss and doesn’t see him for two years.

Not until a note signed with nothing but a Riegan crescent comes chasing him down, asking for a meeting. Yuri had expected some convoluted Alliance crap, come with a mental list of nice favors to ask in return, but it had been a pleasant surprise. A clutch of people from one of the smaller border territories—Ordelia—were scared of the Empire and wanted a place to disappear. Claude was tired, unexpectedly earnest, and willing to send food and other supplies that would more than cover his refugees’ needs.

Saying yes to _that_ isn’t really in question. Abyss is what Abyss is, and Yuri takes care of people. The supply drop is payment enough, assuming it comes through, and if it doesn’t, he has other ways of extracting the balance. Claude, of course, still asks about the price, because he’s a _sensible_ person when it comes to asking favors of the mob, and Yuri can’t really let that slide, can he? “Throw in a few cases of good spirits for the Wilting Rose and I’ll consider calling it even,” he says. “For old time’s sake, my friend.”

“What,” Claude says, blinking with _very_ affected innocence, “you’re not going to ask me to pay with my body?”

Yuri laughs. “Offering your very body to protect your people. How noble, von Riegan.” He reaches out to brush fingertips over Claude’s temple, and he leans into it with a lazy smile that _almost_ reaches his eyes. “So what, if I gave you a time and a place in Abyss, you’d just walk in alone and let me do anything I want to you?” He taps his fingers in time with his words, walking closer to the eternal temptation of Claude’s lips.

“Well, if I disappear, you won’t get the nice booze.” It _is_ reaching Claude’s eyes now, a reckless light. “So sure, sounds good.”

Yuri thinks about whether he should be concerned about this. He’s always thought of Claude as a cautious and defensive player, under all the bluster. But then he remembers the thing he does where he backflips off his wyvern _in midair_ , and has one of those jolting little mid-stream realizations, because _he’s_ been the one playing this cautious.

Right, then.

“Next Sunday, my friend. Meet Balthus at the kitchen door of the Wilting Rose, where all the cats hang out. He’ll take you from there.”

Claude’s lips part a little as he draws breath, and then he pouts. “No can do. Margrave Edmund has me nailed to the wall for private conferences that whole weekend. And not in the fun way.”

Yuri sighs. “Next weekend?”

“If you can do Saturday. Sunday I’m on the hook for a tea tasting, and I can’t put my top importer on hold.”

“I’ll make it work.”

* * *

Yuri doggedly keeps that Saturday afternoon open and does his best not to overplan. Which is hard. Claude at his mercy, after all this time—he has to keep reminding himself that the man might not actually _want_ even a fraction of the things Yuri would like to do to him. Still, he at least makes sure a few useful things are readily on hand, at the top of the messy drawers of his nightstand. That his leather dildo, long and flexible, is meticulously clean and oiled with something that doesn’t taste wretched.

Saturday comes, and he does his accounts in the morning to keep himself from fussing. He reins in the urge to lay out all his toys in the bedroom, and instead leaves only a few carefully chosen and unassuming things. And brews a large pot of chamomile tea with plenty of honey and leaves it to keep warm in a cozy. Claude’s going to need it, if all goes well. If he even shows, which Yuri only sort of expects him to, and wouldn’t particularly hold against him if he didn’t.

But he does. Delivered to his front door by a smirking Balthus, no less. He’s even blindfolded, though not bound, except by his iron grip around one bicep. “Have fun,” Balthus says, and shoves him inside, then closes the door on the wink he throws Yuri. Leaving the sovereign duke of the Alliance standing on his battered doormat with his own belt-sash tied around his eyes.

Claude lifts his hands to it, and on quick instinct, Yuri calls, “Ah ah ah. Not yet. Come forward, Duke Riegan.”

Claude laughs softly at his title, and takes a few steps into the room—cautious, but with perfect grace and balance, like he’s trained blindfolded. “Mockingbird. Thank you for the warm welcome.”

“Oh,” Yuri purrs, catching one hand and squeezing it. “I’ll give you a much better welcome than that.” He pulls Claude into his space, and gives into the urge to run his thumb over those beautiful lips before he kisses him, long and probing, dragging it out until Claude’s breath speeds up and he’s slid one arm around Yuri’s waist.

“You going to keep me blindfolded or do I get to see your handsome face?” Claude asks when they finally break the kiss, hot against Yuri’s lips.

“Flatterer,” Yuri laughs. It’s quite a look on him. Nothing but his sharp jawline, dusted with the beginnings of a beard, and the mouth of his daydreams, the rest of him all hidden away and irrelevant. But it also means he can’t watch his eyes, and really, that’s even more fun. “Come.” He slides his hand up to grab Claude’s wrist instead. “I’ll take it off once you’re settled in, since you asked so nicely.”

Claude laughs too and lets himself be led easily into Yuri’s bedroom. Bedroom and playroom in one. He’s not exactly rich—hell, an apartment with a separate bedroom and living room is indulgent by Abyss standards. But all his toys are there, right on hand. Now one more toy to play with, he thinks—a dangerous, unvoiced thought—as he shoves Claude down in a chair.

He paces slowly around him, full circle, letting his boots click, and then slams and locks the door. Just for effect. Claude shivers deliciously, a reckless smile teasing at the corner of his mouth. “Got me where you want me?” he asks, running his tongue over his lips.

“Getting there,” Yuri says, and straddles him, perching in his lap. Claude loops an arm around his waist to steady him, and Yuri pulls off the blindfold. Claude winces a little, squinting, so Balthus really had gotten it on there properly. Yuri makes a mental note to thank him later.

“There you are,” Claude says, with a fond smile that actually seems almost real, and stretches up to kiss him again. Yuri tightens his thighs around him, runs hands through his sleek thick hair and down his face and over his shoulders, drinking in the scent of him—warm and spicy, probably mostly from his hair oil.

“Ready to give me your body, von Riegan?” Yuri teases, biting the tip of one ear.

“You know,” Claude says, with some obscure spark in his eyes, as Yuri traces his lips with his thumb, “if you only wanted to fuck me, you could’ve just asked.”

“Bit late to be honest about what’s going on here, isn’t it, my friend?” Yuri shoves Claude’s upper lip with his fingers, baring his teeth. “ _You_ could have asked. Besides, who says I only want to fuck you?”

Then Claude—this _ridiculous asshole_ —winks at him and wiggles to catch two of Yuri’s fingers in his mouth. And bobs his head forward, swallowing them deep.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Yuri hisses, feeling a red-hot rush of arousal slam through him, and grabs Claude’s hair with his other hand and _holds_ him there. Claude straight up _waggles his eyebrows_ , and Yuri bares his teeth and shoves the rest of his fingers in there, watches those perfect lips stretch around all four, and fucks his face as deep as he can. Until Claude gags a little. Until those green eyes haze.

Then he pulls his hand back fast, just to see what Claude will do when he takes it away. Which is—chase it, tongue sliding over his lip, even to the point of pulling on his hair. Yuri tugs, forcing his head back a little.

“No,” Claude says, and licks his lips with a grin. “You want to fuck _with_ me. Don’t think I didn’t notice back at school.”

Yuri lets go of his hair. Takes a deep, calming breath. And catches his face in both hands to kiss him, long and lingering, biting his lip until Claude moans into his mouth and slides both arms up around him.

“Do you need to take anything off the table?” Yuri asks, pulling back to study his face.

Claude laughs, reckless and bright. “Depends upon what’s _on_ the table, Mockingbird. Don’t choke me out. Don’t leave marks I can’t hide, and nothing permanent. Don’t piss on me, look, I don’t know what you’re into. But I did decide to come pay for mob favors with my body, so…”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem if I strip you down, tie you up, strap a collar round that noble neck of yours, and fuck with your mouth until you cry, now should it?”

Claude’s face heats _just_ a little—it’s subtle, but Yuri’s right there, he can pretty much feel it. “Big talk about crying,” he tosses off with a grin, and _goddess_ does Yuri want to smack him. “Do I get to get off?”

“I don’t know yet,” Yuri says, letting his smile get very sharp. “Depends on how many more favors I feel like doing you.” He almost certainly will, really, it’s going to be hard to resist hearing him moan around whatever he shoves in there. Though for that backtalk—oh, he has plans. “You know,” he says, gesturing vaguely at Claude’s ducal finery—the subdued version he’d worn for the road, but still. “That looks complicated. And I wouldn’t want to damage anything. Strip down, von Riegan. Let me see what I’m getting.”

“Am I supposed to do it while you’re sitting on me?” Claude asks, still so cheeky.

Yuri sighs theatrically and takes a few seconds to start climbing out of his lap, slowly, letting him think he’s safe—and then slaps him across the face.

Claude’s breath leaves him in a gasp. He recovers, slightly wary, eyes tracking Yuri as he stands, and starts to open his mouth—

“Get on with it, then,” Yuri says, imperious, before Claude can speak. He stands, chin high, claiming space. He almost wants to laugh at his own theatrics, but fuck, the instinct to lord it over Claude is strong _._ Not that Claude seems to mind—he just keeps grinning. Pulls one dark gauntlet off with his _teeth_.

Yuri lets him go, lets him make a show of it—he almost thinks of stopping him, but the glint of excitement reaches green eyes. Claude isn’t faking this, he isn’t putting on a show for some arrogant fully-dressed audience of one that’s planning how to best use him.

Well. He _is_. But he’s actually enjoying it.

Yuri huffs, once, between his teeth, because he’d thought Claude was the only one playing with fire tonight, hadn’t he? He’s usually more self-aware than this. Well, he’s on this carriage-ride. He might as well light it up.

“You really do dress to puff yourself up, don’t you?” Yuri murmurs, as Claude gets his undershirt off, baring lean wiry muscle. “Always trying to look bigger than you are.”

“Hey,” says Claude. “I can draw eighty pounds while hanging upside-down in midair. It’s not my fault some people don’t have the imagination to be impressed by that.”

Yuri circles his finger in midair. “Turn around and show me those thighs if you’re going to talk like that.”

“Sure, sure,” he says, turning. “I’ll even throw in a bend-over for free, shall I?” And does. It really is a nice view. Yuri stalks closer, letting his heels click, and slides a hand over Claude’s bare ass as he pulls his pants and underthings down in one thick handful. Then spanks him, _hard_ against solid toned muscle, a slap that echoes round his little bedroom and gets a startled yelp out of Claude. Who’s stuck there, working on his boots so he can get his pants off.

Nice to know he can get a screw-up like _that_ out of the ‘master tactician.’

Yuri, because he’s a helper, keeps spanking him, moving with his bobbing and flinching ass as he fumbles out of boots and pants. “You’re kind of,” Claude gasps out between strokes, “not helping here.”

“It’s not my job to help,” Yuri says, flippant. “You’re my payment.” It almost hits _him_ like a slap to say that; Claude takes it with a faint moan. “I get to do what I want with you.” To drive it home, he grabs a handful of ass in each hand, muscles flexing against him, and spreads him wide, baring his hole.

“Fuck,” Claude breathes. “Nothing that goes in there goes in my mouth. For the record.”

“I _cook_ , Claude, I’m not an idiot.” Just for that, though, Yuri spits on his hole, pats Claude’s ass as it drips down, and watches those admittedly impressive thigh muscles cord. Claude doesn’t make a noise, but he shakes a little, which makes Yuri think that hit him hard. “Get your boots off, genius.”

“Yeah, well—” He’s gotten one, and manages the other after a few more spanks.

“Straighten up, turn around. Show me the goods.”

There’s a faint noise that’s probably Claude swallowing, and then he does, all whipcord and tanned skin and a few battle scars, some probably old enough to disturb a fellow noble. Not much disturbs Yuri, even if it surprises him a little—he’d taken him for the spoiled sort. Claude’s half-hard, chin jerked up in reflexive pride, flushed. He’s got that playing-with-fire look, all right.

“Well, if you don’t like what you see, that’s gonna be inconvenient,” he says with a lopsided smile, maybe just because he needs to fill up silence. “Already worked out a deal and all.”

“Adorable,” Yuri says, dismissive, and catches him by the face, hooking two fingers into his mouth. “We both know what I’m getting.” Claude, ever-cheeky, tries to suck at them, but Yuri gets a good grip on his jaw, wiggles them around to stick them under his tongue and press on the ridge of bone there, sharp and painful. Claude makes a disgruntled noise, trying to squirm as Yuri forces his head down. “On your knees, Your Grace. Like you said. Already worked out a deal and all.”

The address hits him like a face-slap, and he goes down, reluctant and unsteady. Yuri finally lets go of his jaw and gives him an actual face-slap for good measure, a little fonder than the first. “There you go.” Then a hair-ruffle, rough, dismissive. “Good boy.”

Claude laughs, frayed. “Yeah, I’m not very good at that.”

“Oh, but you will be.” Yuri shrugs, paces over to his chest of drawers to rummage. “You’re paying, after all. You don’t have a choice.” He comes back with what he was looking for: the collar’s two inches wide of thick leather, not the sort of thing one can wear without feeling it, with a chain leash, and Claude’s eyes go a little wild as he tracks it. “And that’s how you wanted it, isn’t it? Really, I’m doing you a favor by tying you up.” He catches a fistful of his hair, jerks his head back and forth before snapping the leather down around his neck. “You can keep not having a choice.”

“You’re sure that’s it, are you?” Claude asks, but his voice is thin as Yuri buckles him in. He wiggles his head a little, like the collar isn’t quite comfortable, and that’s nice. Very nice. Comfortable isn’t really in the cards today. Yuri’s left the leash on the back like he’s a dog—he’s got plans—and he gives it a nice tug to hear Claude make a tiny grunt.

“Seems likely.” Yuri keeps the chain taut and walks towards his bed, which is behind Claude—he can figure it out or choke. “Or you just have the world’s biggest danger kink.” He looks over his shoulder with a bright wicked smile as Claude scrabbles backwards on the floor. “Offering your body to _me._ ”

“Well,” Claude manages, because of course he has to keep _making words_ even now. “Seemed like the thing to do. Favors and all.”

That’s the last straw. The last spark that lights the flame. Yuri pulls a pillow off his bed and drops it down at the foot for Claude—because there’s uncomfortable and there’s fucking up a rider’s knees—and shoves his back against the bedpost, fire in his belly. He is going to make Claude admit he _wants_ this. He is going to make Claude _beg_ him to do the shit he spent half that year fantasizing about.

He tugs him into position, kneeling up, and loops the leash rattling around the bedpost, hooks it up to the top of the headboard so he can’t slide it down, and clips it right back to itself, tight as he can. No play at all.

Claude tests it, once, makes another of those delicious little choking noises, and goes mostly still, breathing fast. He fumbles for purchase, rearranges a little, wiggling back so he can get his hips against the post and his feet tucked under the bed, which, okay, probably easier that way.

Yuri pulls over the chair and sits, and he’s at just the right height, face right there for him to fuck with. If he stretches, he can reach his drawers without getting up—sometimes having a small room is nice.

“Convenient,” Claude comments, bringing up that grin again and licking his lips, and Yuri, phenomenally annoyed, grabs a gag first, squeezes Claude’s jaw to force his mouth open, and shoves the leather-wrapped ball in.

“Don’t think you get to run your mouth how you like,” Yuri hisses, dragging his head down to buckle the strap. “It’s mine now.”

Claude makes a strangled moan, hands going into white-knuckled fists. Says something that might be _are you sure_ , and Yuri gives him another slap.

“Don’t test me. I’m getting things set up. You will get yours, if you can handle it, when I’m ready.” Claude’s eyes spark, a challenge accepted. “In the meantime, behave, or you _will_ regret it.” He finds one nipple and twists, hard, and Claude howls, delicious, made filthy by the ball jammed in his mouth. Just a moment to recover: Claude’s panting a little, nostrils flaring, eyes wide. Then he folds his hand over his jaw and pinches his nose shut. “Now hush.”

Claude’s eyes go wider still, and he paws at Yuri’s wrist with a muffled croak—but of course he _can_ breathe around the gag, sips of air between leather and teeth.

Yuri finds one of his hands and squeezes it, gently, once, without letting go of his face.

Claude squeezes back.

Yuri shoves Claude’s hand back down against the bedframe and keeps holding on until his eyes go a little hazy. When he finally lets go, Claude drags a huge breath through his nose, makes a little whimper of relief that’s fucking delicious, and rests there in his collar, lean chest heaving as he steadies himself.

Yuri grabs what he needs. First, a handbell. “Take this,” he says. “Keep it muffled. If you need to stop, drop it. Since you won’t be able to talk much.” He pats his cheek.

Claude takes it in his right, hooking two fingers inside to dull the sound, and nods.

Next, a roll of gum-soaked tape, the sort used for some bandages and sprains. It’s an indulgence he wouldn’t have allowed himself at times, but all his careful dealing has paid off: Abyss has more medical supplies than it needs for once, especially with the ducal gifts, and this stuff dries out in time.

“Other hand,” he says, and Claude, reluctantly, offers it up. Yuri catches it by the wrist, curls it into a fist, and starts taping it up, wrapping fingers and thumb all into a ball. He can practically see it sinking into those big green eyes: one hand taped, the other busy. He _could_ drop the bell, but as long as he doesn’t signal, his hands are useless.

 _Fuck_ , Claude says, pretty distinct even around the gag, and Yuri looks him dead in the eye with his best glare and keeps taping. Finishes it off. Reaches down to twist his nipple, the same one to be mean, and this time Claude shakes enough to rattle his chain as he yells. He’s definitely trying to defend himself, though endearingly careful not to jostle the bell. He _could_ tie his wrists, Yuri thinks, but the squirming is _fun_. Also he’s so close to free—that must be fucking with him.

Next, and last, Yuri reaches for a length of thin cord. A particularly resourceful Adrestian brothel-matron had taught him this trick: a sort of slipknot, looped around a doubled-over lock of hair, that could hold even with a relatively short length. As he’d expected, Claude’s thick hair holds it particularly well. He gathers a nice chunk, so it won’t hurt _too_ much when he pulls on it, and tugs the tail up to tie off further up the bedpost.

Claude makes disgruntled little noises and wiggles, testing. He really doesn’t have much play: his head is pinned between collar and hair, tilted back a little, and he sucks deep breaths as he realizes that, squaring his shoulders like he’s bracing himself.

Yuri gets one more thing: three clothespins, held very deliberately where Claude can see. And then settles in his chair, elbows on his knees so he’s right up in Claude’s face, and lets his hands wander. Pinches his bottom lip and pulls, letting drool drip on his chin. Toys with his nipples to make him moan. Claude’s harder now, in spite of all of it, which is delightfully telling, but Yuri isn’t going to let him get away with only showing it with his dick.

“So,” he says at last, and slips fingers behind Claude’s head to loosen that buckle again. He makes a soft groan as Yuri pulls out the gag, swallowing and running his tongue around his lips. Yuri tosses it aside, replacing it with two fingers, and Claude tries to bob forward to suck them, and fetches up on his bound hair, and settles for tongue tricks which—well, he’d be moaning if he had his dick in there, he has to admit. “Fuck, I’ve wanted to do that since that first time you derailed class for half an hour.”

“Han’t you alreay grauate?” Claude asks thickly around his fingers, and then looks faintly annoyed, flush deepening a touch.

Yuri pulls them out to slap his face, again, hardest yet, because he doesn’t particularly feel like getting bitten. “You never learn, did you?”

“Told you I wasn’t very good at that.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m not going to let you talk much.”

“Did seem to be kind of the poi—n, yeah.” He’s garbled again as Yuri shoves his fingers back in. “Kinna figure. Way you looh a me.”

“Regardless of what you might like,” Yuri goes on, “I’m going to give you a choice.” Claude raises his eyebrows, questioning. “I _could_ just tape up your mouth. Or maybe find you a nice muzzle.” Claude flushes hard at that, jolting against his collar. “Use your body how I like and leave this—” he fucks his fingers deeper, once, making him gag “—out of it.”

“S noh whah you wan,” he manages, still reeling from _that_ particular threat.

“ _You_ do not decide what I want,” Yuri says sharply. “That’s one option. The other?” He holds up the clothespins. “You beg me to put these on your tongue.”

Claude freezes.

“And I will. And I’ll shove things down your throat and fuck with your mouth in every way I’ve imagined during all those days in class, and probably more I haven’t. But you’re not getting it until you admit that you want it. Until you admit why you’re here. Until you. Beg. Me.”

Claude makes one tiny noise that might almost count as a whimper.

Yuri slides his fingers out and wipes them gently on his cheek.

“Take your time,” he says, sweet as honey.

“Don’t you _dare_ muzzle me,” Claude spits out, shaking with a desperate sort of rage.

Yuri shoves four fingers back in, deep enough to make him gag, and smiles in delight. “So _there’s_ that pride you like to pretend you don’t have.” It’s the most nakedly upset he’s ever seen him—he probably wouldn’t follow through, not with some old pain raw in those green eyes, but it’s a satisfying threat. “Is that your choice, then?”

Claude manages to shake his head a little, making a choked _uh-uh_ around his fingers.

“Well, then.” Yuri keeps his fingers deep, twisting his wrist a little and drinking down the distress in Claude’s eyes, the way they haze a little as he gags, struggles through it, gags again. “If,” he says, dragging it out as Claude’s eyes haze and he starts to settle around the intrusion, “the next words out of your mouth are anything other than your begging, you’ll have made your choice. And I’ll close your lips up and find all kinds of ways to hurt you, since I’ll be very annoyed with you.” He finally eases his fingers out, and this time what he wipes on Claude’s face is thicker, back-of-the-throat spit that trails in a fine string. “Now. You know where you stand, Your Grace.”

Claude makes a strangled noise. Swallows. Tries to wipe himself with his taped-up hand, and Yuri bats it aside. He squeezes his eyes shut, like he wants to hide the face journey he’s going, but the struggle is there in the way his jaw works, the way he tugs against his collar, paws at it. Even reaches once, abortively, for Yuri, for the clothespins he’s toying with meaningfully, like putting them on himself would be enough of an answer.

As hot as it would be to make him do that to himself. Maybe next time, Yuri thinks. If there’s a next time. He might need a little more control over this struggling plaything to pull _that_ off. And it’ll be even more fun when he already knows how much it hurts.

Claude finally opens his eyes, breathing fast and hard, gaze darting around the room, looking a little wretched with his head tied in place. He can’t quite look Yuri in the face. He seems to be calming. Deciding.

But still he’s silent.

The longer it lasts, the more certain Yuri is about the answer. Claude swallows, moves his lips without sound. Twice, thrice, before finally coughing up the right words. There’s excitement building red-hot in Yuri’s belly. He wonders if it would have been easier if he hadn’t punched him _hard_ in his pride, but no matter. It’ll happen. He dances a clothespin between his fingers and Claude’s eyes follow it. Claude’s tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“Please,” he says at last, and he can’t meet Yuri’s eyes.

“Look at me,” Yuri murmurs, putting every bit of command he can into it, and Claude’s eyes flick up to him. “There you go. You were saying?”

“Please. Put those clothespins on my tongue. Please.” It’s forced, uncertain, but it’s a start. Yuri twirls his wrist— _go on_. Claude has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, then, “Please…fuck my face, hurt me, gag me, I know you want to—”

Yuri slaps him, quick and easy. Not _too_ hard, he doesn’t want to yank out his hair, but enough to sting. “This isn’t about what I want, my friend. This is about what _you_ want.”

“I want you to wreck me,” Claude blurts, voice tight. “Because you’re gorgeous, and dangerous, but also I know you’re safe, you’re a good man—”

Yuri feels his gut clench, hot-cold and uncertain, and smacks him again. “Flatterer,” he says, and Claude flinches. It’s infinitesimal. Maybe it had been true—or at least what he believes of him. Yuri knows what kind of creature he is. It doesn’t matter.

Claude swallows hard, eyes searching his, and his taped fist nudges Yuri’s thigh, like he’s trying to reach out to him somehow. Beautiful idiot. “Please put those on me,” he says, quiet, almost actually pleading.

“Why?” Yuri prompts, low and threatening.

“No,” Claude whines, straining at his collar so hard he can see his neck cord under the edge of it, but he doesn’t drop the bell.

“Should I get the tape, then?” he says, pinching his lip.

“ _No_ , I—gods, Yuri.” One of those little slips; not like Yuri doesn’t know where he’s from, even if Claude wouldn’t admit it. “Please fuck me up, silence me, use me, break me, please, I need…I need to stop. Being.” His brow creases, like he’s fumbling for words. “Who I am right now.”

“Who you are right now?” Yuri slips a finger under the collar, tugs. “Right now, you’re nothing but my payment.”

Claude’s face goes slack like he slapped him. Fuck, Yuri feels like he slapped _himself_. Fire burning both their feet as they run.

“You’ve daydreamed about this too, haven’t you?” Yuri breathes, barely even giving it voice.

Claude nods, small, then says, simple and wretched and entirely earnest, “Please.”

Yuri lets his most dangerous smile sit on his face for a moment, lets him twist, before deeming that enough.

“Tongue out.”

Claude takes a shaky breath or two and obeys, clearly a little nervous, but when his eyes flick up to Yuri’s for a moment, they’re burning.

Yuri opens one, carefully centers it, and lets it go slowly. Slowly. Claude whines in the back of his throat as the pressure builds, shakes and pants as Yuri finally lets it go. It’s unrelenting pain, he knows. Claude, of course, has to wiggle, try to pull his tongue back in and get a mouthful of clothspin. Yuri catches it, tugs, wrenching out a wet and hollow groan.

“Clothespins, von Riegan. Plural.” He gives a teasing smile. “I don’t care if you didn’t think it would hurt this much. Are you not a man of your word?”

Claude whimpers. And slowly, with sad wounded eyes, figures out how to hold still. Two more clamps, one one each side, and there’s no getting his tongue back in his mouth now. He’s still panting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to get a handle on the pain and can’t quite manage it, and Yuri puts his chin on his fist and drinks it all in. Lets his other hand drop down to tweak the clothespins, making him yelp with a single fingertip. Claude’s own hands are up, fussing, white-knuckled around his bell; he nudges the clamps himself once, flinches, struggles from the neck down.

“Do you need me to tie your wrists?” Yuri asks, _almost_ gently.

Claude’s silent for a moment, one fist bumping against the bedstead like he wants to hold for dear life, and slowly, shakily nods.

This, of course, means he’s stuck there, wrestling with the unrelenting pain on his tongue, while Yuri finds some cuffs. He makes it quick, but of course it’s an experience to have a man’s back turned to you while you suffer more-or-less helplessly. By the time he comes back, Claude’s breathing slightly steadier, with the tiniest little whimpers on each breath, and his bravado has crumpled, his sad wounded look softened to a haze of beautiful pain.

“Hands,” Yuri says, flat and firm, because making Claude _behave_ is a thrill in itself.

Claude offers them up. Not graciously, but without much fuss. He buckles the heavy leather cuffs, twins to the collar, and then crouches to clip them together on the backside of the post he’s leashed to. Claude holds onto his bell and lets himself be bound without struggle, then wiggles to test it with a little moan.

Yuri takes his seat again, with a few extra clothespins in his hand to boot. “Comfortable, Your Grace?”

Claude makes a wretched noise, jerks his head in his bonds.

“Mm, let’s see…” He nudges his tongue with one knuckle, making him flinch, and then drags down his lower lip to plant another few clothespins there. Claude _whines_ , and Yuri jostles the whole bundle just for _fun_. Repeatedly. Then he pulls it down a little with one hand, forcing his mouth open, and shoves his fingers in deep again, holding them there until his eyes turn pleading. He probably can’t _actually_ feel Claude’s constant whines of pain with his fingertips, but goddess, it almost feels like he can.

“You really do like that, don’t you?” Yuri teases. Claude chokes, swallows, adjusts. “Taking whatever I shove in there. No need to run that mouth of yours. No worries, no decisions.” Claude shakes a little, shoulders sagging. “All you have to do is suffer pretty for me.”

 _Fuck_ , Claude might have tried to say around his fingers, but it’s just a particularly decisive groan. Yuri tugs and toys with the clips on his tongue, and he groans in pain—or tries to, but gags instead, cracking into a mess.

“Poor little payment. You want these clamps off, don’t you?” He finger-fucks Claude’s mouth almost lazily, toying with his gag reflex and watching him fight it. There’s a nod, a little unsure, like he’s wondering if it’s a trap. Clever boy.

Yuri pulls his hand out, runs it wet down Claude’s chest, and explores his bound body, watches drool drip off the ends of the clothespins as he curls one hand around his hardening cock, coaxes out a moan. Then another, wretched and pleading, as he flicks the clamps, bounces then. “You’d rip them off yourself if you could, wouldn’t you?”

Claude pants, uncertain. “Phrobahbly,” he fumbles, wincing as it moves his lips and tongue, dragging on the clamps.

Yuri laughs, soft and dangerous, and plucks one clamp off his tongue, not particularly gently. Claude yelps, rattling his cuffs, and tries to flinch away, but the collar and the cord in his hair hold him in place, helpless. “Let’s see,” Yuri murmurs, blood singing with glee, and catches Claude’s upper lip, pulling that out and resetting that clamp there. A wail. More thrashing. It probably hurts more than the lower lip, since it’s not quite as thick. Maybe not as much as the tongue.

The second clamp moves to his upper lip. The third doesn’t quite fit easily there, so Yuri leaves it on the tip of one ear while he tugs both sets of clamps, pulling Claude’s mouth open by his lips. Claude whines and flinches as he tugs and twists, kisses him to scrape teeth over his sore tongue.

“Mmm,” Yuri says, hearing his cuffs rattle, “yes, aren’t you glad you’re tied up, that was very sweet of you to ask.” He’s barely even thinking about what he’s saying anymore. He’s _thrumming_ , there’s nothing left in the world but Claude’s reactions, there’s not even time except for the rhythm of his gasps and the way his skin is changing color around the clamps, until he finally takes pity and takes them off his bottom lip, making him shake and groan. “Fuck, you’re pretty like this,” he murmurs, dragging nails over the prints on his lip, and Claude twitches.

“Fuckh, that’s not, I’m not—”

“Pretty?” Yuri laughs, merry and bright. “Oh, you’re very handsome, don’t worry. It’s the way you _suffer_ that’s pretty.” He plucks off the last clamps, yanks on his tender lip to make him flinch. “Like that. The way your eyes crinkle. Your _noises_.” A smack to his face. “So. Pretty. Hold this for me, will you?”

He grabs one of the things he’d left out on the bed. An empty glass jar, the sort covered with little decorative knobs and lines. Claude makes a disgruntled noise, turned to a garbled moan as Yuri crams it in. It’s a stretch for him, forcing his jaw wide open, and he makes this tiny little back-of-the-throat whine as Yuri gets it as deep as he can. It’s a _good_ whine. Yuri wishes he could record with a spell and play back every night before bedtime. The glass is a nifty effect too, with his tongue pressed up right against it, and he slides his fingers in and taps the smooth inside just because he _can_.

Then spits inside his palm and reaches down for Claude’s dick.

Slow strokes at first. Figuring out exactly which of his arsenal of tricks makes him quiver. His eyes are already halfway to rolling back, like his mind’s whited out from the thing jammed in his sore mouth, and when he twists his palm over the head just so, they go the rest of the way as he jerks in his bonds like a puppet, all the grace gone from him.

Yuri waits until his balls tighten up before lifting his hand off his dick.

Claude makes some choked-out, gurgling noise around the jar in his mouth that’s probably a vicious curse.

“Here. Give me that.” Yuri tugs on the jar, pulls it wet out of the clench of Claude’s jaw, and he coughs a little, recovers, then gurgles as he finger-fucks his mouth with the hand that had been on his cock, feeding him his own taste. Then he reaches over again for the next thing: a pair of scissors. “Let’s give you a nice break, shall we?”

Another thing he’ll savor forever: the wide-eyed, terrified bewilderment as Claude tries to figure out how a pair of scissors anywhere near his mouth counts as a _break_. He’s lost for words, reddened lips working without sound, and doesn’t recover before Yuri starts jamming them in his mouth, handle first, spreading his cheeks wide on the loops. His jaw can relax, at least, and it’s not like it goes gagging-deep.

“You,” Claude starts, words only halfway mangled this time, as Yuri reaches for his dick, feather-light, teasing. “You’re noth, c’mon, sho theashing me, Yuri—”

“Hush,” Yuri says sweetly, and nudges the tip of the scissors, forcing Claude’s whole head a little in one direction, then the other, testing the limits of that cord. “Hush. Trying to tell me what to do, oh, that’s adorable.” Claude whines, trying to thrust into his hand, shoulders cording as he strains for freedom. “Look at you, all stretched wide.” It’s nonsense, and it hits Claude like blows, makes him flinch as Yuri traces his cheek, feels where it’s stretched around the scissors.

These he can hold for a while, they’re practically comfortable compared to everything else he’s done, so he takes his time, lazily teasing him until he’s simmered far enough from the edge that he can bring him right back up again, and he never really stops fucking with his face with his other hand. Pulling his lips, pressing on his cheeks, jiggling the scissors, pinching his nose to make him pant and drool, muttering sweet nothings to his captive duke. Until the next edge comes up, and Claude’s eyes are _begging_ him even as Yuri shoves three fingers in under the scissors and pins his tongue to the floor of his mouth, silencing his desperation to a wordless howl as he lifts his hand back off his twitching dick.

“But,” he says, finally wiggling the scissors back out of Claude’s mouth and freeing an incoherent string of swears. He sets them aside and picks up the dildo: long, flexible, on the thin side. “But this is what you really want, isn’t it, my payment?”

“What,” Claude finally manages, voice messy even with his mouth empty. “You’re not going t—”

Yuri slips the tip of the dildo between his teeth on the round of that _o._ “I can’t watch you suffer nearly as closely if I’m all the way up there, now can I?” A soft slap. “Keep up, Your Grace. I need to see exactly how much of this I can ram down your throat.”

And so he does, one inch at a time. He’s not _mad_ , after all, just glitteringly high. He knows how this goes. He can be patient. So can Claude’s poor twitching cock. He takes his time, working in and out, wearing through Claude’s gag reflex as his eyes roll back, hazy, shoulders sagging as he figures out how to surrender, bucking again when his control slips and he chokes. “Swallow,” Yuri purrs, rubbing his throat over the collar. “Swallow around it. Let it in. Breathe steady, only through your nose. Slow. Breathe.” He reaches to fidget with the clasp on the leash, giving Claude an inch more play so he can lean forward, get his head back further. “There you go. _There_ you go.”

It sinks into his throat.

Claude’s beautifully still for a moment, barely breathing even though he probably still can, until Yuri rubs his chest lightly. “Don’t hold your breath. Don’t panic—” One attempt to breathe and he chokes, shoulders heaving as he gags hard, and Yuri backs out entirely, letting him recover with only the tip of his thumb lightly between his teeth. “Does it hurt?”

“Nnn,” Claude manages, coughs, tries again. “Not. Much. ’S soft.”

“Good.” He slides the tip back in, twisting it to stretch out one cheek, amusing himself. “You feel any really sharp pain, you drop your bell. Got it?”

Claude nods, a muffled _uh-huh_ , and then Yuri smiles like a knife and pushes the dildo deeper. Down until he gags. Up. Down again, and he manages a little longer. A trance state, both of them, searingly silent except for every little wet choking noise he’s fucking out of his throat.

“Goddess, look at you go,” Yuri croons, sliding it a little deeper and feeling the dildo buck in his hand as Claude’s throat struggles around it. He pats his cheek with his free hand, not very gently. “If you ever owe me another favor, I’ll train you up to take this to the root until I can tie in there.” Claude gags hard, spasms, squeezes his eyes shut. Yuri makes him hold it for a few more seconds, chest heaving gloriously, struggling in his bonds, until he gags again, and then he takes pity, slides it out.

“Fuck,” Claude croaks, “fuck, Yuri, please—”

“You really going to do that now?” Yuri says, even as the sound of his fucked-hoarse voice goes _straight_ to his dick. “Talk? You think you get to do that?” He smacks him across the face, hard, cutting off whatever he was about to say, then rams the dildo back down his throat. This time he gets to keep it through three struggling, almost panicking gags until Yuri lets up, and by the time he’s done with that, he’s palmed some clothespins again in his free hand.

When he pulls the dripping dildo out, there’s wetness shining at the corners of Claude’s eyes, and he flushes hard under bronze skin as Yuri smears it with a fingertip. Then grunts as Yuri crushes his palm over his mouth and pinches his nose, smothering him. He bucks hard, feet kicking, eyes going wide.

“When I lift my hand,” Yuri says, low and dangerous, “you are going to put your tongue back out, von Riegan. And if you try to talk again before I’m through with you, I’ll hang a weight off these clamps and leave them on until your tongue goes dry. See if I don’t.

Claude makes some tiny breathless whine.

Yuri waits long enough for Claude’s eyes to shade a little desperate, then lifts his hand.

Claude gulps air, squeezes his eyes shut with a wet croak that shakes his shoulders, and slowly, meekly, puts his tongue back out. He trembles as Yuri puts the clamps on—it’s probably still tender from last time. He sags in his bonds as he wrestles with the pain, panting. His face is a dull red, deeply flushed, and the thin dampness hasn’t faded from his eyes.

“There you go,” Yuri murmurs, tender, and brushes the stray bits of hair off his damp forehead, stroking his temple. His heart feels like it’s going to rattle out of his chest. “There you go,” he says again, and cradles his face in both hands to kiss one eyelid, then the other. “Good boy.”

Claude makes a noise that sounds almost like a sob.

Yuri pulls almost gently on the clamps and wrings out another one. Claude tries to turn his face away, pulling so hard that his scalp stretches a little, and Yuri takes pity and folds his hand over his eyes, letting him hide. It’s nice watching him break open, but he can peek soon enough, and the _noises_ , the shivers running through his body—those are even sweeter.

He’s not exactly full-out crying, and the shakes die down after a few moments, and Yuri can’t really let him have _that_ , now can he? He picks the dildo back up as quietly as he can, gives Claude another few breaths to think he’s relatively safe, and then shoves it back down his throat.

The choked-off wail Claude makes—goddess, he feels like he could almost come in his pants. Yuri bites his lip, hard, and fucks Claude’s face all lazy and messy until he’s retching and heaving for breath, raw animal noises, dragging the clamps on his tongue and knocking loose tears as he goes. He can’t last any longer—he just can’t, fuck it, and he lifts his hand from Claude’s eyes so he can fumble himself out of his pants.

Even this fucked up, Claude makes a ragged hungry noise as his gaze drops to Yuri’s cock.

“Not this time,” Yuri says, and yanks out the dildo, leaving him gasping. Pulls on the clamps instead to get his tongue slavering out. “Scream for me,” he breathes, and twists one of Claude’s nipples, pulling a raw and torn-up shout out of him—his hand speeds up—

He bites back a moan as his orgasm rushes through him, hot and fast after so long a wait, and he paints Claude’s face in two, three spurts. He squeezed his eyes shut, at least. There’s a glob on his eyelid. Some drips into tears, messy spit, slides off the end of one clamp to patter on the floor with his drool.

Yuri catches his breath for a long moment. Stares at his old friend, his gabby classmate, the Sovereign Duke of the Alliance, tongue-clamped and burning with humiliation and covered with spit and tears and come, because fuck, he needs to etch this into his memory. He reaches out to wipe one spurt of come off the collar with his thumb—would be a pain to clean off later. Then the drop near the corner of Claude’s eye, lest it fall in and sting.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he says, low and rough, and pulls hard on the clamps. “Don’t you dare speak.”

Claude makes a vague noise in the back of his throat, like he’s too tired even to nod.

“Want me to take these off and make you come?” Yuri asks, orgasm-haze soaking through his limbs, making him indulgent.

That vague noise again, a little more pleading. A tremor of a nod.

Yuri sinks a few fingers in, explores lazily, smears his come around Claude’s tongue, pushes out the pocket of one cheek. “Beg me with your eyes. Your sweet little noises. Come on. I’m sure you can be convincing.”

There’s not even any hesitation left in him. He only whimpers, brow crumpling, and Yuri’s seen him do the big green puppy-eyes look plenty of times, but never like this. Never _earnest._ Yuri slides the other hand down to play with his dick, coaxing him up to the edge, and Claude whines louder. He lifts his hand. _Whine_. Lifts his hand. _Whiiine._

When that gets old, he pulls his other hand out of Claude’s mouth and takes off one clamp. Claude wails and shudders, lets his head thunk back against the bedstead.

“Keep it up,” Yuri purrs. “I could leave the other two on, you know.”

Claude had never sounded quite that despairing. Muscles in his arms dance as he pulls weakly at his cuffs. And he begs, wordless even with nothing in his mouth, loud pleading moans that scatter in pain when the next clamp comes off, heighten in pitch every time he lifts his hand from his twitching cock. The last clamp.

And at least this time he’s smart enough to keep it up.

Yuri makes him whimper and plead through another few strokes of the dildo deep in his throat, before finally holding it home, gagging deep, as he tightens his hand around his dick. “Don’t look away,” he says, intense as he can. “Don’t hide. Show me what’s in your eyes when you come apart.”

Claude almost sobs again around the leather cock in his throat.

Yuri yanks it out, freeing his moan as he starts jerking him off in earnest.

It’s not like it takes long. The last dregs of Claude’s composure crack, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, then forces them open and wails as his cock starts to pulse. Yuri aims him as best as he can, and after all the edging, it’s a thrashing, shouting one. His bedframe creaks. Claude comes hard enough to hit himself in the chin, spatter all over his chest and stomach, and his eyes are wide and terrified and exultant.

He makes wordless, scattered little noises as he comes out the other side, not quite able to catch his breath. Yuri pats his cheek with the dildo, dripping slime from his throat, and sets it aside. Then kisses his other cheek, sweet as anything.

“Ah,” Claude says, soft and shaky, and turns his head to kiss him. He’s straining against the cord in his hair, and shivers a little with pain as Yuri’s tongue touches his, and is still struggling to breathe—and yet still he kisses him.

It’s a good thing whatever soft noise Yuri makes is muffled in his mouth, because damn it, his heart is going to explode, just like that. He tugs the slipknot holding Claude’s hair to the bedstead—he can pick the cord out of there later, but that at least frees him. Then he reaches down behind them, fumbles open the clasp latching the wrist cuffs together, and takes the bell out of Claude’s hand as his arms come up, stiff from their bonds and uncertain. Or tries to. He’s got it in a death grip, thumb jammed between two knuckles, and it takes a slightly alarming amount of time to coax his hand to unfurl.

“I’m done with you,” Yuri murmurs against Claude’s reddened lips. “You can talk if you need, it’s okay, it’s over. I’ve got you.”

Claude makes some incoherent noise, swallows once, twice, finally lets go of the bell, and Yuri catches it and sets it aside with a soft chime, then unclips the leash from his collar, leaving the chain wrapped around his bed. Free except for his taped-up hand, Claude sags forward, and Yuri wraps him up, a stiff and coltish bundle against his chest. It’s hard to remember that Claude’s a little bigger than him like this, not when he’s naked and curling into himself, hands in front of his face and his whole body burrowed into Yuri’s shirt, like a night creature who’s been out in the sun for too long.

Yuri strains a little to pull a blanket off the bed, shaking it loose and draping it around his naked bundle, and Claude fumbles with the edge to hide himself in that too, and then he curls there in his arms, contact-greedy, shaking. He’s not crying, really—dry sobs, or something like, raw emotion wringing through him, and Yuri holds him tight and rubs his back and nuzzles the top of his head. “I’ve got tea when you’re ready. Plenty of honey for your throat.”

Claude makes some vague noise like he’s heard him, which is about all he can expect at the moment.

“You did great,” Yuri murmurs. “You were amazing. Everything I’d dreamed of and more.”

“Fuck,” Claude croaks, voice absolutely wrecked, and stirs a little, sliding his arms around Yuri in return.

* * *

Weeks later, in amongst the flood of supplies that had started _mysteriously_ falling off the backs of Victor Company merchant caravans and finding their way into Abyss’ bootlegging runs in ways that _obviously_ had nothing to do with the crescent moon slipped into the stamped labels, one package finds its way right to Yuri’s doorstep, hand-delivered by Balthus. It had been tucked into the cases of very good spirits bound for the Rose’s store-room.

The string that ties it is sealed with wax, and the stamp—well. Balthus has one of those. A few select others. The mockingbird in flight, the sign his best people use to mark something as for his eyes only. The sign that carries more-or-less the same weight as diplomatic pouch seals in the underworld. He most certainly had not issued Claude one.

“You scamp,” he mutters, and sure enough, when he pops the seal, the Riegan crest is scrawled underneath, with the particular quirk of Claude’s own hand.

He rips the package open.

Leather straps spill out.

Yuri sorts them out and arranges them. They’re a fair match for the collar he has, well made, though a few different styles, like Claude had bought them here and there. A bridle and bit. A ring, large enough to hold a mouth open wide, with a strap and buckle. A gag with a padded leather insert sewn onto a panel, thick enough to stuff him full, not long enough to test his gag reflex—goddess, Yuri thinks, Claude could probably wear that comfortably for _hours_. One of similar make, though with an insert more like a dildo, and that one he’d need _serious_ training to wear for more than a minute.

And a note:

 _Sorry about the seal. I promise I’ll use it only for official business, like this. Also you should do me more favors.  
_ _—CvR_

Yuri leans back in his chair and laughs. Oh, he’ll have to train him out of calling this a favor before he starts feeling disgusted with himself. Still, he laughs and laughs, something in his chest loosening, and hooks his fingers through the ring as if it was in that ridiculous man’s mouth and he could hold him by it. “And don’t put scissors in your mouth again, is that what you’re trying to say? You goddess-forsaken _scamp._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> I [tweet](https://twitter.com/letterblade)


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